


London's Best Cats

by tallismoi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, I don't even know how to tag this, M/M, catssssss, johnlockchallenges
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-02
Updated: 2012-12-02
Packaged: 2017-11-20 01:56:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/580027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tallismoi/pseuds/tallismoi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John didn't meet at Barts. They met when Mycroft and Greg took a shine to each other. It bears mentioning that Mycroft and Greg are cats.</p>
            </blockquote>





	London's Best Cats

**Author's Note:**

> Written for 4seiji's prompt on johnlockchallenges, "the best cat", fluff/crack/AU. I went with AU. I hope you like it.
> 
> Hideously unbeta-ed, so all comments are welcome!

Mycroft Holmes was outstanding among his species for being unusually intelligent, efficient, and fat.

It was odd, because everyone who met Mycroft knew that he was a rather picky eater. In fact, due to Sherlock’s neglect, he often had to skip meals. His size was a mystery.

Of course, the cause of this supposed mystery was so obvious to Sherlock as to be boring. Mycroft Holmes was not very active, going so far as to spend the entirety of his day basking in the warmth of a charging laptop. Sometimes Mycroft liked to press the teeny-tiny buttons on umbrellas with a paw (thus proving his intelligence) and lie under the shade provided.

The time he spent every day without moving a muscle had clearly contributed to his paunch. Sherlock noticed that Mycroft eventually began a curious pattern of eating very little for a week, then returning to his usual eating habits. After observation (the most attention Sherlock had ever paid to Mycroft), Sherlock concluded that Mycroft was actually dieting. Which was the most ridiculous thing he had ever seen.

He had never seen a cat try to go on a diet before, let alone fail so miserably.

 

* * *

 

Greg enjoyed walks very much. He especially enjoyed walks in Regent’s Park, which he thought of as his territory. John Watson was very obliging about this, and appreciated the chance to exercise. Such opportunities were few and far between as a veterinarian.

He also faced the challenge of maintaining his hard-earned abs after leaving Afghanistan. John Watson was not vain, but he took a secret pleasure in hiding his physical strength under layers of cardigans and jumpers. It added some small excitement to his terribly dreary day.

Greg, on the other hand, could not care less about John’s abs. He liked to run around Regent’s Park and sniff at everything within reach (except the homeless man, who would kick him away). John wondered sometimes if Greg was a dog.

When Sarah last visited John’s tiny box flat, Greg had jumped up and slobbered all over her lap. He proceeded to eat the delicate strawberries meant for John and Sarah to share. John was mortified and tried to apologise to Sarah, just as Greg began to do something rather – well – inappropriate to her calf.

Oh, alright, he tried to hump her calf.

John Watson had seen many things in his lifetime, but he had never seen a cat try to hump someone’s leg.

He wasn’t surprised when Sarah refused a second invitation.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock, being a consulting detective, had myriad skills. However, he was aware that some of his shortcomings were natural and impossible to overcome. Said shortcomings were not, in fact, the usual emotional rubbish people expected. Sherlock knew he lacked emotional sensitivity – he did not consider this a shortcoming.

Among his shortcomings (however few) was his poor sense of smell. If there was a handbook for consulting detectives, it would state clearly that the five senses were all essential in accumulating clues. Sherlock thus found the next best thing.

Mycroft Holmes provided a nose that was very accurate and sensitive; coupled with the cat’s high level of intelligence, more than a few useful clues had been surfaced with his help.

On 7th September, Saturday, at 6.34 AM, Sherlock and Mycroft were exploring Regent’s Park. They (mostly Sherlock) had decided to show up early to avoid being obstructed by the Met (mostly Anderson).

On 7th September, Saturday, 6.34 AM, Greg had scratched at John’s knee to the point of tearing his favourite pair of pajama pants. John woke up and thankfully refrained from screaming when he felt something sharp claw at him. He merely shouted at Greg and chased the cat out of the house. He then fell back asleep, confident that Greg would be outside the door when he awoke (as always).

At 6.50 AM, Greg stood next to a tree in Regent’s Park and appraised it carefully. He then marked the spot, and went off in search of the homeless man.

At 6.52 AM, an unusally active Mycroft leapt from a park bench to the very tree Greg had just marked and sniffed. “Found something?” Sherlock asked, a bad habit of his (because cats could not understand him, and his speaking to them was therefore redundant yet strangely involuntary). Mycroft simply followed his nose.

At 6.57 AM – and here comes the monumental, life-changing, completely coincidental yet surely fated event – Mycroft and Greg saw each other at two opposite ends of the same bridge. Their eyes met. Or at least it looked that way, because one can’t always see where cats are looking. In any case, they saw each other.

Thus began the strange friendship between a British shorthair and a Pallas’s cat, the kind of friendship that gets stares and curious whispers, and at the same time an odd reverence.

“Mycroft, please spend your time more efficiently,” Sherlock snapped. “Instead of gawking at strays like that.” He had identified the other cat as an ordinary one, lacking in any particular detective qualities, and therefore useless. Mycroft ignored him (as was to be expected) and crossed the bridge to join Greg.

Sherlock gave a sigh of long-suffering, and made the first few steps towards the two cats.

A gunshot rang out, and Sherlock leapt out of the way as a bullet punched a small hole in the wood of the bridge. Then he ran, the gun chasing him from under the bridge and peppering it with bullet holes. Both cats followed him as he stopped under a willow by the water, trying to peer under the bridge from a safe distance.

“Greg, there you are.”

It was 7.11 AM. John Watson had opened the door, panicked mildly when he did not find Greg, then made his way to the park. His cat was currently in the company of another, as well as his owner. The stranger was the most striking out of the motley crew – tall, wearing a Belstaff and a scarf. His curly mop was extremely untidy and his clothes were all flecked with dirt.

Had the homeless man suddenly been given a fancy coat?

John frowned. “Come on, Greg.”

At 7.13 AM exactly came another moment that deserves note in the universe. Sherlock Holmes saw the man coming towards him, clearly the owner of the unfamiliar cat. The man was standing very near him, within arm’s reach.

There was another gunshot, and a bullet whistled past them. John turned towards the direction of the shooter, hand on his Sig Sauer almost reflexively.

“What the fuck –“

“That’s just the man under the bridge,” Sherlock explained, which didn’t help very much. There were more gunshots, and Sherlock dived out of the way to avoid them.

“He’s trying to kill you!”

“Well, yes, there’s no need to say the obvious.” Sherlock rolled his eyes and took off down the path to the bridge. John followed, carrying his gun discreetly.

“You should get to safety,” John shouted.

“I’m the pursuer, not the pursued.”

They were soon close enough to the bridge to see the hulking shadow beneath it. John could tell the shooter had stopped to reload his weapon, and was now raising it to aim at Sherlock. Shit. He was within range.

Sirens blared suddenly, startling John into action. He pointed the Sig Sauer under the bridge and pulled the trigger.

And then he remembered that he wasn’t supposed to be carrying a gun, let alone using it. He stuffed it back into his waistband and grabbed Greg. The cat protested at being separated from Mycroft and tucked unceremoniously under his owner’s arm.

John ran.

 

* * *

 

“I’ve a proposition for you.”

The voice came suddenly, strange and familiar. John wasn’t easily startled, but his hand flew to his waistband, as usual.

The tall man from Regent’s Park walked into his tiny box flat.

John sighed, relaxing. He trusted the man implicitly, even if he did get up to suspicious activities in parks. “Jesus, you again. Are you following me around?”

The tall man smirked. “I don’t have to.” He set his uncommonly pudgy cat down on the floor, where he was immediately greeted by Greg. A few minutes of silence passed as both men watched their cats frolic with mild amusement (and curiousity; neither had ever seen their cats so friendly).

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” the man asked suddenly.

John frowned. “Afghanistan – who are you, again?”

“I didn’t mention it. Hello, Dr. Watson. I’m Sherlock Holmes.”

“Are you with the government?”

Sherlock laughed shortly. “No. Don’t be so small-minded, John.”

John sighed, his face wry. “Of course. How did you know?”

What followed was a long explanation of everything about John, down to the smallest details. John prided himself on his simplicity and valued privacy very much, but hearing Sherlock read him like a book was nothing short of amazing. And even as Sherlock deduced his life story, John couldn’t help wondering why he hadn’t thought of this before, or noticed that before.

He listened, entranced, and was almost tempted to applaud some of the more elaborate deductions. Sherlock’s voice filled the flat with its low, sweet cadences. Mycroft and Greg occupied John’s armchair, sharing the space evenly between them, watching their owners orbit each other with a centripetal force.

As Sherlock finished, there was silence.

“Brilliant,” John said. “That was bloody brilliant.”

Sherlock flushed slightly. 

“What do you do? Are you with the Met?”

“Consulting detective,” Sherlock explained. “The Met are highly incompetent boors that are in constant need of my help to solve the simplest crimes.”

John grinned. “I bet. And your cat? I didn’t peg you as the type to own pets.”

“Mycroft has the sense of smell of a bloodhound. Very helpful at crime scenes, as you might imagine.”

“Pallas’s cat? Rare creatures.”

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded approvingly. “And yours?”

“Greg’s useless.” John laughed. “Aren’t you, Greggy? Ruined my pajama pants this morning.”

“If anything, he has good timing,” Sherlock pointed out. “If not for that, he wouldn’t have met us in the park. You wouldn’t have come out in search of him. I would be dead, if not for Greg. And yourself.”

“Are you trying to thank me?”

Sherlock was silent.

“You’re welcome,” John added quietly.

“Back to my proposition. If you and Greg would like to become my flatmates, you will need to prove yourself useful additions to 221B Baker Street.”

“Flatmates? When did we –“

“I decided there was no need to ask you, since you would clearly say yes.” Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. “To continue, I would like to know Greg’s skill set. I am already aware of your many talents, John, so there will be no need for you to be tested.”

John stared at him, openmouthed. “Sherlock. That’s not on, you can’t assume I want to be your flatmate.”

“But you do.”

“That’s not the point! And you can’t just test someone’s cat.”

“Why not?”

“It’s just not on! What are you going to do, make Greg take an examination? Do you ask all your friends to sit for pop quizzes before getting to know them? Jesus.”

Sherlock considered this outburst for a moment. “I don’t have friends.”

John wasn’t sure what to say to that. “Alright. Okay. I’d like to be your flatmate. Baker Street would be a fine location, and I can’t afford the rent on my own. And what's this test for?”

“Mycroft is the best cat in London,” Sherlock said by way of explanation. John began to protest, but was cut short. “He is the most intelligent, and surprisingly agile. He has many feline connections, which helps. If Greg can’t best Mycroft at any skills at all, there’s no point. He’ll only be an inconvenience.”

John pressed his hands to his temples. Trust Sherlock to think pets were meant only for convenience. “What does this entail?”

"A trial period for evaluation, during which you and Greg will be assisting me in investigations and -"

"This is ridiculous," John said, cutting Sherlock off. "You don't choose your flatmates based on how useful they'll be. It has to be based on - on - how well you understand the other person, and whether you can stand living with them and sharing a space with them."

"And my criteria for how well I can endure someone else is based on how useful they will be."

John shifted his jaw irritably. "Then the answer's no."

"So you decline my proposition?"

"Yes. I mean, no. Listen, I'd love to be your flatmate and help you on investigations, because you look like you could bloody well use some protection. But I won't allow Greg to take a baseless test just to prove himself better than 'the best cat in London."

"Our partnership will not just be beneficial for me," Sherlock said. "You want it too. It reminds you of the war. You miss it."

John looked unperturbed by this pronouncement. "We can do that without being flatmates."

"Very well."

 

* * *

 

The very next day, Sherlock and Mycroft requested the company and assistance of John and Greg in scouring the vicinity of a crime scene for eyewitnesses. This was followed by the pursuit of a supposed druggie unconscious in an alleyway who was actually the employee of a European mob boss. John succeeded in wounding the man with a shot to the thigh, while Greg nipped viciously at the man's calf. They handed the murderer, incapacitated and bleeding, to the Detective Inspector Dimmock. Dimmock tried to question Sherlock and was met with irritable opposition. He turned to John, who was very obliging, and patiently detailed the event (complete with Sherlock's deductions - most of which he got wrong).

They then burst through the door of 221 Baker Street, giggling madly.

"Your cat has the oddest propensity to behave like a dog," Sherlock commented with a wide grin. "And my cat has the propensity to act like a teenaged girl trying to be popular."

"Mycroft! A teenaged girl -" John clutched at his stomach. "How do you mean?"

Mycroft glared at Sherlock, as though daring him to tell John. Sherlock, of course, ignored it.

"Did you know he _diets_?"

 This new information renewed John's laughter, much to Sherlock's delight. "I've never heard anything more insane," he said. "And I invaded Afghanistan!"

Mrs. Hudson emerged from 221A, smiling warmly. "Keep it down, boys. And you must be Dr. Watson? Sherlock's mentioned you. I've already got your room ready for next week!"

John's laugh was suddenly cut short. "My room?" His expression soured. "Sherlock!"

"Well, it's alright if you don't need the room!" Mrs. Hudson winked conspiratorially. "I just assumed -"

"I do need the room - I mean, no, I don't!" John flushed and turned to Sherlock accusingly.

"It's quite alright, dear, Mrs Turner next door's got married ones! I have to run, I've got cookies in the oven." Mrs. Hudson patted John on the arm and gave Sherlock a peck on the cheek before tottering back to her flat.

"I realise you're looking for an explanation. Come upstairs," Sherlock said finally, and began the short ascent to 221B. Mycroft peeled himself away from Greg and trotted after his owner, broad nose in the air.

John glanced at Greg, who was watching him questioningly. He sighed and beckoned to the cat.

 

* * *

 

"I said no the last time," John said 

"I know that, I remember _everything_."

"And yet here we are!"

Sherlock steepled his hands, lounging on the sofa. "You would have said yes today, if Mrs. Hudson hadn't spoken to you."

The cup of tea in John's hand was not helping. He shifted slightly in his armchair, knowing that Sherlock was right. "I would have, yes. I always would have, as long as you'd given me the chance to make my own decision."

"But if I'm already certain what the outcome of the decision will be, why not prepare in advance?"

"You CAN'T be certain, Sherlock, never. Not completely."

"I can."

John's lip thinned into a line. "And whatever happened to Greg's 'test'?"

"As far as I'm concerned, Greg has already proven his physical strength and loyalty. He is highly different from Mycroft. He's almost a dog. That can only bode well for future investigations."

"Look at them," John said suddenly. Mycroft and Greg were asleep before an empty fireplace, Greg curled protectively around Mycroft. Being the smaller cat, this made Greg look slightly ridiculous. "They're... attached to each other."

"Obviously."

They were silent for a while.

"I play the violin in the wee hours of the morning. It helps me think."

"What?"

"Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."

John's mouth quirked at a corner. "I'm quite sure that's far from your worst."

"You'll see, over the years."

"Years? Thinking in long term, are we?"

"Why not? It would be a waste, giving up a partnership between two of the best cats in London."

_fin._

**Author's Note:**

> I'm just going to apologise because I know I didn't fill this prompt very well. I rushed through this because the deadline was coming up, and I'd already written and discarded 4 drafts (you can take a look at the drafts, if you'd like) over a few weeks. I have a problem, clearly.
> 
> This is how I envision Greg: http://www.catsofaustralia.com/images/Purshanty-British-Shorthair-Kitten.jpg  
> And Mycroft: http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/d/d6/Manoel.jpg/220px-Manoel.jpg
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it nonetheless (or at least laughed at my horrible writing)!


End file.
